The Bride of Dreams | Page 3

understanding.
Listen, then: I am an old man proclaiming the glory of a new era. I am
lonely and forsaken, but nevertheless I have a share in the great human
world and the life of the gods.
I sit here serenely in my sombre, cool, old house, with its musty odor of
old wood and memories of past generations. I look out upon the harbor
and I hear the continuous murmur of the sea-breeze in the tall elms on
the dike, and the screams of the gulls speaking of the vast and briny life
of the sea. And yet, in the solitude of this quiet, forgotten life, I feel
that I am mightier than the mightiest, a match for fate. I rule life; it
shall bow to my wishes. I wrestle with the gods, even to the Most High.
Sometimes I tremble, when a careless glance, with some semblance of
deeper import, from one of the persons about me makes me think that a
spark of this seething life within me has been discovered. But no one
sees it, happily, nor knows me!
Had I told you this, (is it not so, dear reader, though you be ever so
wise?), and I came not in a fiery chariot with a halo of glory and in
dazzling raiment, but in my citizen's clothes, then after all you would
undoubtedly have shrugged your shoulders and taken me for a poor
fool.
But now I am a rich sage, because I write and hold my peace.
You are still a person, dear reader, but I have gone a step beyond - I am
dead and no longer a person. Now, now while you are reading this. In
this now, that is also now for me. I am no person, but more than that,
and therefore can say to you what, from any person, would annoy you.
For you there is left only a still, small book, that meekly submits to

being closed up and laid aside - and then again, as patiently as ever,
resumes its tranquil message, when opened.
II
My parents were Italian aristocrats and my childhood days in the
paternal home in Milan and our country estate near Como loom up
vaguely before me in pictures half memories, half dreams. I cannot
clearly distinguish what is purely memory and what a dream, or
dream-memory, of these olden days. Memory is like tradition; one does
not remember the first impression, but only the memory of it, and who
knows how much that was already distorted; and so the picture changes
from year to year, like a vaguely-told tale.
My childhood days fell towards the middle of the nineteenth century. It
was my time of luxury and state. Our home was a palace with a pillared
courtyard, wide stairway of stone with statuary, and a marble dolphin
spouting water. We had carriages and servants and I wore velvet suits
with wide lace collars and colored silk ties. I remember my father at the
time as a tall, dark, proud man, most fastidiously groomed and dressed.
He had shiny black whiskers and long, thick, wavy and glossy hair that
fell over his forehead with an artful curl. He wore tight trousers with
gaiters and patent leather shoes that always creaked softly. He had a
calm but very decided manner, and impressed me immensely by his
gentle way of giving orders and the confidence with which he could
make himself obeyed. Only my mother resisted him with a power
equally unshakable and equally restrained. As a child I saw this conflict
daily and, without appearing to do so or being myself quite conscious
of it, gave it much thought.
My mother was a very fair blonde Northern woman whom I heard
praised for her great beauty - a fact a child is unable to determine for
himself about his own mother. I know that she had large, gray eyes
with dark rings underneath, and that it often seemed as though she had
wept. Her voice, her complexion, her expression, everything vividly
suggested tears to me. And in the silent struggle with my father her
resistance was that of an aggrieved, painful, sensitive nature: his was
cool, more indifferent and gay, but none the less firm. I never heard

them quarrel, but I saw the politely tempered tension in the dignified
house, during the stately meals, even as the servants saw it. Yet my
father would sometimes hum a tune from an opera and joke and laugh
boisterously with his friends; but mother always went about silently
and gravely, gliding over the thick carpets like a spectre and, at her best,
showing but a wan smile.
We were wealthy and prominent people and my parents felt that very
strongly. And when I think about it now, here